


Pashtarot Discovers Crab Evolution

by am doing a breakthrough science (acceptnosubstitutes)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, Humor, Shennigans, add crab, minor mitron/loghrif (but like real minor), nonbinary halmarut, playing around with esper zeromus and gravity to pashtarot's scion of light
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-19 09:01:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29872275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acceptnosubstitutes/pseuds/am%20doing%20a%20breakthrough%20science
Summary: Your menace - One (1) gravity defying, levitating crustacean.Your players - Mitron. Halmarut. Loghrif. Lahabrea. Hapless assortment aquatic creatures and various confused ancients.And scene.There is a hermit crab in the Akadaemia Andyer. Committing crimes.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 8





	Pashtarot Discovers Crab Evolution

**Author's Note:**

> This, remarkably, began as a simple fever dream - Pashtarot as a hermit crab loose in the Akadaemia, being chased by a crooning Mitron. Because Pashtarot's constellation is Cancer and Mitron is the fish ascian. Guess my brain thought it was hilarious.
> 
> Not sure when the gravity came in, but since he's paired with the esper Zeromus from FFXII, I thought it might be interesting to imagine Pashtarot with gravity powers.
> 
> And here we are.
> 
> Bookclub link of friendly enablers: https://discord.gg/ME4eAEt

Ah, another lovely day of tutelage in the hallowed halls of Akadaemia Andyer. All at peace, all students seated, poised for guided learning from among Amaurot's finest and brightest minds. Scratch of quill on parchment. Murmured conversation. Venerated Mitron pauses in his animated lecture to answer questions on selachimorpha behavioral study.

"- the surrounding water cleans their eyes," he says, voice alight on a well known favorite subject, "negating the need to blink. Certain species of shark protect their eyes, however, while hunting or being attacked. Can anyone name this particular membrane?"

Several hands rise, of which Mitron picks at random.

"The nictitating membrane, your excellency."

He gives the floor to his students, directing them into discussion over the importance of sight in shark predation. Adding in the middle the additional considerations of electro and chemoreception as forms of tracking. When he sees it out of the corner of his mask.

Rich, brilliantly red in color, against an irregular white shell, a small crab scuttles along the floor a few levels down from the Words of Mitron's front entrance. Stands out starkly amongst all the gold and metal, marble trappings of the lecture hall otherwise. 

Mitron holds up a hand, stalling conversation.

"Asariel, have you secured the saltwater tanks properly once more?" Mitron tries not to let the weariness show in his voice, but honestly, some of these creatures are _quite_ delicate too long out of water.

The student in question assures him all protocols were followed to the letter. Water levels and salt concentrations carefully observed for even their most finicky aquatic guests. Which does not explain the crustacean. Antennae twitching around in the air, clambering down the side of another step.

Mitron sighs. Strides forward, crouching down near the poor thing. It pauses, scuttling a little closer, tiny black eyes unblinking. Up close Mitron notices several odd characteristics about his little friend. It's coloring, for instance. Solid red seen at a distance now legs speckled with blotches of purple. And yet, a marine hermit crab lacking shell covered in even one barnacle? 

Mitron cannot recall any new shipments of creatures brought in from afar, nor any recent aquatic creations fitting such themes. Curious.

"There, there little one," he coos, shifting on his heels to better reach for it safely, "shall we endeavor to find you a safer, more hospitable environment? I know of several most roomy tanks!"

He grasps the crab's shell gently, lifting slowly with other hand prepared to settle its legs on his palm for transport. Or would have. Would have. Mitron scarce lifts the creature a few inches off the ground before its antennae twitch rapidly, in all directions. Some force, an unremitting pull, fair tugs the crab out of his hands entirely. Holds it still in midair, suspended above a sudden shroud of absolute quiet. Bated breath.

This is not the first, nor the strangest incident to befall the ichthyology department. Yet each event presents its own novel challenges and strange curiosities. Such as the crab, descending now, latching onto the side of a bench. The nearest students scramble away from the creature. Mitron huffs, exasperated. Hermit crabs are hardly aggressive. 

It does, however, rapidly tap its legs against its perch, antennae twitching in time. Digs in. And Mitron has no frame of reference to describe the feeling, the sudden drop of security from beneath his feet. One moment he's slowly advancing on the creature from an angle, nearly upon it again. And the next? 

The world quite literally tilts.

Mitron scrambles for purchase, boot heels digging into the ground, but it barely slows down his slide. Away and towards the entrance, vertigo setting in, as if down some imaginary slope. There but invisible. Most of his students too tossed back into their seats, unable to rise. 

The few that somehow escape the area of effect he waves away concern from himself, pointing insistently at the crustacean returned to levitation, slowly floating away.

"Catch. That. Crab!"

The further away from the crustacean, the weaker any pull it seems to have on its surroundings. Localized effect then, centered around the creature. Manipulating gravity to distort its own relative reality? Fascinating! And deserving of further study. 

Perhaps worthy of a visit to the Phaenomena Planetarum? Consultation with his grace, Pashtarot himself, precedent authority on all things gravitokinesis. Such a rare treat for the chastiser and knight-star to collaborate beyond moon-tidal reports and weather charting. Mitron fairly vibrates internally, imagining presenting his coworker this curiosity. A levitating crab! 

Surely then even Pashtarot, attention ever turned toward the heavens, will finally acknowledge the incredible potential of life on their own star. Artificially created or otherwise!

Mitron climbs to his feet, watching his students do the same.

"Simply fascinating," he says, laughing brightly, "the wonders of diversity in action! Well? To your feet! After! After!"

"After, he cries," grumbles one student, under their breath, " _after_! Are we not gathered to discuss and plumb the depths, the mysteries of life? This is clearly -"

"Shh!"

Flurry of activity. Rustling fabric, the noise of many pairs of boots on the ground and hands scrambling to jump for the crab flying overhead.

"Careful now," Mitron chastises gently, "mind the delicate, fragile structure. Corner the creature here. I shall set to entrap."

Usually, such aetheric bonds were reserved for larger specimens during transfer between habitats. The more wily, difficult behavioral issues, with multiple rows of razor edged teeth. Or poisonous, sharply barbed fins. Not all of life's creatures came docile and defenseless, yet each deserved respect. Due diligence afforded to their care and conservation.

However, exceptions to the rule of thumb always existed.

Barriers sprout to life, drafted from drifting ambient aether designed to cut off the crab's avenue of escape. Bottling it in. Each barrier the creature runs into, scattering it off in another direction, another wall of aether, only agitates the crab more. 

Climbing in a loose, lopsided spiral toward the ceiling, the creature once again enacts its unique command over gravity. Shoots through the top layer of the half-formed containment chamber before anyone can slam the final barrier shut, rocketing upwards.

At such speeds the crab should dash itself to harm against the ceiling. But it lands gingerly on delicate legs not so much as twitching under pressure of flipping over midair, planting itself firmly down. Scuttles off at speed again.

Upside down, across the ceiling, like it was the floor. 

Two of the closest students caught nearest the chamber flail in place, bounced up and floated off after the crab. They don't get off as lucky, however, pinwheeling in slow loops a few feet off the ground. As soon as the crab moves a certain distance away, the pull seems to weaken almost immediately. Dumps them, groaning, crumpled in piles on the ground.

More barriers formed out of the ceiling, here and there. Raising a maze like pattern less to contain and more to force the crustacean back down where it'll hopefully prove easier to capture.

Key word there: hopefully.

Not a minute on the ground again, besieged by three students cutting off its escape routes, antennae twitches again. Despite its small stature, each swiping, snapping strike from its larger claw sets off minor thunderclap. Sonic boom. Harmless, but pushing any caught in range away. Dazed.

The crab raises both claws in the air now, snapping in quick, furious succession. Shrieking, grinding groans chisel out nearby. A sudden rushing behind the walls, creaking metal straining. Giving way.

"Is that -?"

The more astute among their number instinctually dive behind benches. Others enact shielding against the barrage of stone and metal projectiles soon railing down on them. 

Many deflected missiles come dangerously close to breaking fragile tanks built into the wall of the lecture room. Pinging off glass one after the other. Too fast, too many to keep track of, block, and sure enough.

_Crack._

"The aquariums!" Mitron cries in dismay.

Small enough leak, at first, at the base of a single aquarium. A brightly colored, yellow fish swims up to the disturbance. Inquisitive. Sent scattering back to its school a moment later. Spidering, creaking cracks spread out faster and faster, letting out a steady stream of water gushing at Mitron's feet.

One more tank cracks. And then another.

Superficial breaks these, and Mitron sloshes through a growing puddle following the crab booking it down the corridor into Ichthyology.

"Get those tanks fixed," barked over his shoulder, "and for the love of everything holy on this star, someone pick up the zebrasoma flavescens off the ground before they suffocate!" 

Once free of most of its pursuers, the crab scales the walls again. Snaps claws at barriers hastily raised to entrap it. Mitron ducks out of the way of a slab of marble sent sailing at chest level. The creature hardly slows any, scooting around a corner as fast as its five pairs of legs can skitter it along. 

Even a minor dip in the tank water earlier - that it broke! - shouldn't be enough to keep it going this long. Or throwing marble at people. Or walking on the ceiling. Or any number of the frankly astonishing things it's proven itself adept. Mitron may have to resort to more strident measures in order to get it under control. Especially if, as he suspects, it's headed for a quick out through phantomology's rooftop exit. Lahabrea will wring him a new lecture to rival the ages if one his constructs ends up worse for wear. Again. 

Much less the thought of mixing gravity with any of Halmarut's more delicate, fragile projects brewing in phytobiology. Their little sprouts they espoused so enthusiastically over lunch the other day. The newest creation still tucked away in flowering beds. Mounds of lumpy grey clay covered in moss, from what Mitron's observed. Sprigs of leaves poking out the top of their heads when seasoned. 

Whatever function they'll serve Halmarut's keeping close to their chest for the time being. Still don't deserve being yanked screaming out of their beds and tossed into the ceiling. Poor things.

Mitron swerves back around the last curve before Ichthyology, avoiding another spray of torn up marble, coming to terms. He may well need to set Cladoselache and Doliodus loose. Only as a last resort! Just to block off its path further through the Akadaemia so he can finally get a handle on the unruly thing. 

Mitron comes out into the open circular area at a run, panting. Has to stop, bent over to catch his breath. Ripples of animal concern press against his consciousness, similar motions making waves in the pool surrounding the platform. His creations circle in the water. Restless.

"Mitron!"

Ah. Well, so much for avoiding alerting Lahabrea and Halmarut to these rather embarrassing proceedings. Mitron's colleagues, trailed by a podge of tiny malboros (of all things) ascend the teleportation pad from phytobiology. Join him on the platform. Surely between the three of them, though, one crustacean…?

Halmarut takes notice of the hermit crab first. They make an amused coo, kneeling down and reaching towards it. No doubt paying more attention to the adorable, tiny bulging eyes than the claws rearing back for unprotected fingers. 

"Don't just reach for things with - "

Halmarut yelps, quickly retracting said fingers instinctively into their mouth against the sting. 

" - sharp claws," Mitron finishes. Sighes, rubbing at the bridge of his mask's nose. 

Honestly, some of the best, brightest minds of their star, still curiously prodding creatures that bite back. Though Mitron supposes he has little room to judge. The numerous cuts and bruises he sheepishly brings home to Loghrif his own badges of slightly reckless science. 

Lahabrea next erupts in greatest discomfort, near jolting out of his skin. And Mitron blinks, catching sight of the crab near the speaker's feet. Glinting between pincer and smaller claw while it shuttles out of the way of crushing bootfall, boosted speed savior once more - is that a spear?

Faintly buzzing humming drone, static gray and continuously shifting form. Yes. The wonderful thing is _creating_.

Mitron rushes forward, grabbing Lahabrea's tellingly raised arm. Folds his own fingers over his colleague's hand, lowering it pleadingly between them.

"No, no no! We must preserve this wondrous creature, Brea, not set it aflame! Do you not see it's potential?"

Lahabrea huffs. "Potentially I am bleeding, you great old fool."

Going by the red splotches besmirching the platform, Mitron would hedge a fair guess yes. Immediately distracted from alerting fastidious Lahabrea, who notices the blood anyway. Because, naturally. The speaker lifts the edge of his robes, scowling down over shredded leather. Apparently the spear's not just for show.

But there's Halmarut to worry over first. Mitron watches them exert themselves huffing and puffing. Ever shortening, loose circles around the outskirts of the platform, trailed by four plant creatures. Too many drooping tentacles, sagging open mouths, and all the _eyes_! He shudders. Halmarut claims the things are cute, even, but that doesn't explain the wailing or -

One morbol lags behind, leaving it's soft back to the tender mercy of the crab not far behind. Of which it, backed into a metaphorical corner, shows none. Wails reach ear piercing levels. One down, three morbols between the crab and Halmarut, but at least it's left the spear behind? Which evaporates into nothingness while the crab flexes its legs, rocking back and forth, and -

Oh. Mitron blinks. Then again, more rapidly. It's flung itself onto the head of the next morbol, snapping up tentacles and riding it out of formation. Oh, dear.

Lahabrea snaps fingers in front of his face. "Tell me, Artemis," testily, "the particular impetus keeping me from tucking into roasted crab legs before the eve's out?"

How. Very. _Dare_. The nerve! In all their long years of companionship, Mitron knows when his friend speaks from a place of irritation but no real harm. Even his urge to fry the creature earlier likely would have left it toasty, surely, dazed, most certainly. But nothing more than superficial damage. And Lahabrea himself would have inquired on the creature's health until it recovered in full.

It is still the principle of the matter!

Mitron prods Lahabrea sharply in the chest. "They are majestic creatures and I will see you respect that!"

Familiar straining, groaning wrenching cuts off Lahabrea's no doubt snippy rejoinder. A section of pipe jettisons itself from the far wall at force. Rushing water spilling from the gaping hole in its absence. 

_Warning_ , announces the automated alarum, _leakage detected in vector pipes. Flood risk determination: high. I repeat. Warning…_

Halmarut completes another loop, turning their head just in time to catch the pipe glancing off a temple. Mask scattered one direction, momentum spinning them dizzy. Little choked, wheezing gasps. And they drop.

Lahabrea mutters what may actually be a curse under his breath. Hand moves too quickly for Mitron to stop him, though the hermit crab doesn't so much as spark. Does seize up in place, claws loosening around the malboro it still torments. Also drops like a sack of stones. Dismayingly, the plant slimes right off the platform and plops into the pool. Screeching.

Oh, Mitron will need to purify and cleanse his engendered sharks' habitat so thoroughly after this is settled. _So thoroughly_! 

But Halmarut sits up, head in their hands, by the time Lahabrea kneels by their side so Mitron turns his attention to primary problem number one. Approaches the crab warily, ready to seal it inside a containment chamber at first sign of unruliness.

"Shall we behave now, hmm? I would like to examine you for injuries before resuming transfer. There's a dear - "

It's eyes don't blink, of course. Hermit crabs lack the eyelids for such actions and thus any expression Mitron attributes to them a projection. Or rather, a strong physic backlash of petty defiance powerful enough to send the chastiser reeling. The crab uses this distraction to squeeze itself through the opening of its shell. Disappearing into darkness.

_Oh_. Mitron shakes his head, shrugging off mild dizziness. That does it! Even he has his limits!

He grips its shell, lifting up in preparation to push the creature into the chamber he has at the ready at the side. And nothing happens. Mitron looks down at the crab, disbelieving. Rolls up his sleeves, taking two hands to the shell. Which, considering the creature is barely a fulm tall and less in width, means he's overlapping by some amount. And _still_ it refuses to budge!

"Have you not yet corralled that annoyance?" 

"No, Brea, as you well see! It. Remains. Rooted. Quite firmly! I could use assistance - what do you two think you are doing?!"

Plants should not have lungs and yet Halmarut's morbols hack and cough upsettingly. Each wheeze racks their tiny, jelly like bodies, producing a vile brown-amber sap. Mitron watches his colleague direct their projectile vomiting at the broken pipeline.

"Th-there are surely better ways," he sputters, still pulling on the stubborn crab, "you know where that sap has _been_!"

"Oh come off, you old badger," Halmarut says. Once the first layer of sap hardens, they direct their creations to produce more. "My sprouts require precise and dedicated sprinkling, not a deluge."

To their morbols their snark turns to coos. "Pay no mind to Mr. Grump. Save the day, you shall and all the best grubs as reward, yes?"

Possibly the produced gurgling may count as some indication of happiness. Or indigestion. The morbol sailing through the air, however, bounced off Cladoselache's fin and returned by an impressive leaping jump off Doliodus' nose simply wails. Halmarut's coos change to screeching dismay. Yes, well, perhaps their plant shouldn't have gone for a swim!

By Halmarut's side, Lahabrea crosses his arms over his chest. Regards Mitron's attempts to lift the crab with uncertain expression under his mask but a definite exasperation to his posture all the same. Yes, yes, surely it looks simple from his position but then perhaps he should try picking up the blasted creature!

Which is, of course, the exact moment the crab loosens its grip on the floor. Releasing a surge of energy Mitron recognizes immediately. Acrid burning, ozone scent. Rippling mirage-like twinkling stardust warping the very air, hazy waves. But not why _here_.

Mitron grunts, staggering backwards under an unexpected weight shift. The arms that wrap around and cling to his neck in near strangle grip. Instinctively, Mitron supports his colleague's back, one arm under his knees. One moment, a crab. The next, there in his embrace one frazzled Pashtarot sans mask blinking owlishly up at him. 

"Hello. You were a crab," Mitron says. Intelligently.

Boot heels clicking on marble announces another's arrival before they enter the room. Mitron recognizes this energy too even before he turns around, ever familiar with Loghrif's warmth. The fathomless lack of beginning or end to the pull of her magic comforting at the edges of his consciousness.

He swings around, bringing Pashtarot with him. Whatever joyous greeting fades from his lips at Loghrif's crossed arms. Tapping boot.

"Have I interrupted a private moment?" Loghrif gestures widely at the two of them, other hand on hip.

"Dearest," Mitron starts, shifting Pashtarot in his arms, "on my honor, I swear this thus. He was of the crustacean persuasion but moments ago."

Halmarut sucks in a whistling breath, exhaling it all in one emphatic 'oof'. 

Lahabrea sighs. 

Loghrif's grip tightens. "Adhering to the Cancer motif a touch strongly, are we not?" 

Pashtarot looks, if possible, even more bewildered.

Helplessly, Mitron directs his attention on the man currently putting his arms to sleep.

"You threw a wall at my head," he grouses. Bits of several walls, actually. Support pillars. And the floor. "That, I should inform you, qualifies as harassment."

It's not his best moment, watching blue eyes narrow, that Mitron remembers exactly where Pashtarot's hands are at this precise moment. Ah. Briefly tightening into fists near his neck! Before they relax and his colleague huffs at him.

"The creature's first instinct was to flee, using whatever means at its disposal. When a lumbering giant attempts your abduction," very vindictively spoken, really, "perhaps you shall understand the sentiment. Release me forthwith."

"Now, Artemis," echoes Loghrif.

Mitron grumbles, imagining doing just so and dropping Pashtarot in a heap on the floor. But no. No, Mitron settles him on his feet. The polite, courteous thing to afford a coworker. Immediate pins and needles erupting in his absence. 

Mitron drifts to Loghrif's side, eyeing the fingers tapping into her hip. Her temper such an easy thing to set off. Those fiery emotions one of his favorite things about her. But surely she'll see reason. If he merely explains!

"As you see, class but in session hardly a few bells whereupon we became interrupted."

"By Pashtarot," Loghrif says.

"By a crab," Mitron stresses, "I would - I would _never_! And let the record not misrepresent. He was but a fulm tall. Sort of scrawny."

Pashtarot crosses his arms over his chest. "And can hear you."

Mitron waves a hand in his direction. Already well into a slightly disturbing and highly animated dissertation of what, in his mind, a perfect specimen of crabkind should ideally look like. Rather than indulge his nonsense, the knight-star rolls his eyes, turning from the pair to his remaining colleagues.

Halmarut waves from their seat on the ground, bruising beginning around their temple. It doesn't take much to put two and two together, given the circumstances. 

He winces. But goes to them, crouching down at their side. They beam joyfully, taking Pashtarot by the shoulders. The malboro in their lap wiggles off onto the floor between them, still faintly damp from its dip in the water. Though with these creatures such moistness rather featured, for good or ill.

"Ah, you are yourself again! Nasty business. Utterly dreadful! Gave me quite the contusion, you see."

He does. Distracted thus by Halmarut's injury, neither immediately notice the malboros curiously investigating this new presence into their midst. 

"My sincerest apologies - "

Halmarut squeezes his shoulders, laughing. They lean forward and gingerly touch foreheads a moment, mindful of the bruise.

"Nonsense. I'll hear no such thing. 'Twas a natty do, all accounts, but here you are. Free of harm and in the fresh air to boot. All is well."

Pashtarot frowns. They make it sound like he never leaves his office. Patently false.

Of course, when he states as such, Halmarut hums at him, patting his thigh. Lahabrea muffles what sounds suspiciously like a snort.

"Of course you do, dear," Logrihf says. Patronizingly!

Even Mitron, lost in the intricacies of how many legs his ideal crab should have, peers over his shoulder at Pashtarot before distracting himself back into color camouflage adaptations.

Oh, everyone suddenly a critic. As though they were any better. Perhaps sensing the storm brewing, Halmarut clasps his hands between theirs, drawing Pashtarot's attention back and up toward their head.

"Might you be so kind? Daresay the headache begins to grate on me."

Hmm. "Should have spoken thus sooner."

But he reaches up, cupping the side of their head in gentled grasp. Concentrates. Halmarut relaxes into him, sighing under pale white glow reducing the size of the bruise. It's color and pain.

Underneath them, malboros gurgle-coo up at the light, leaving slime trails all over Pashtarot's robes as they clamber around him. One in particular seems to discover a fascination with the fabric itself. Gnawing and slobbering on the hem.

Lahabrea observes their new jungle gym from above. "You shall never rid those robes of their secretions."

"Likely not," Pashtarot agrees, looking up at him. "Do you mind?"

"Hmm? They are your robes."

Pashtarot glances down at his right boot, trickle of blood slowed but not yet abated. Curls one hand in Lahabrea's direction urging him closer, while pushing the malboro climbing up his back gently down. It wraps tentacles around his wrist in protest. Mourning pitiful wail until he sighs, pausing in healing Halmarut to reach for the creature and settle it in his lap. Cries receding back into coos as the creature shuffles up as close to Pashtarot as it can get.

He returns to task, pointedly ignoring Halmarut's widening smile. Lahabrea's fond huff, drawing close.

"Soft heart," the speaker murmurs. He lifts the edge of his robes, turning his shredded boot into Pashtarot's hand and dropping the hem again. "Nothing more than mere flesh wound, rest assured. The spear, however, 'tis new. Literal interpretations of the stars now, hmm?"

An amused hum. "Azem's summonings oft require sterner hands. Wildlife of fang and claw do not respond well to respectful parley," this next said in wry, but affectionate tone, "though Azem ever tries."

And Lahabrea equally soft in answering chuckle.

"Of that I have little doubt."

Mitron's crab pitch reaches a feverish level, attracting everyone else's attention. He's aided his eager gesticulations with some sort of projection, showing off a slow moving, rotating creature being built from the ground up. Far bigger and more streamlined than the crab he spent so much time chasing through the Akadaemia. Though if his colleagues are to take the sandy beach underneath its legs as an environment, it may also be levitating.

" - it's veritable potential, my flame, do you not realize - "

Logrihf crosses her arms again, turning away from Mitron. "What I realize is you have developed yet another project." She addresses Pashtarot. "Perhaps I was unduly rash. Take my aggravating husband, if you will."

The knight-star's expression may chartitably be described as affronted.

"I do not _want_ him."

Mitron makes a wounded noise.

"Fine. Stay with your creations you favor so much," Logrihf says, adding a sniff for dramatic effect. "I will take the small one to dinner in your place."

Over a series of disgruntled muttering, Pashtarot returns to healing Halmarut for the second time. Quite determined to ignore any other interruptions until their skin color returns to normal.

"I recall not agreeing to such."

Loghrif merely chuckles, departing her husband's side to come up to his. She offers Halmarut and Lahabrea a small nod, before turning her attention downward.

"Your acceptance is secondary," she says, archly. Matter of fact. "A debt owed over assault of Mitron's personage."

"Which I will inform you again. Involuntary transformations, crustaceans or otherwise, feature poorly on stress levels."

"Ah, is that what we are blaming your actions over?" But Loghrif's tone has lost most of its biting edge, mellowing out into teasing undertones. "You may instruct me in full over fresh crab legs."

Pashtarot levels the ground a flat look, finally deeming Halmarut and Lahabrea well on the way back to pristine health. Or as much as they're likely to achieve under constant harassment. Minor injuries, such as they were.

"Hilarious."

Loghrif finally lets up her facade of ignoring Mitron. How dejected he seems, left alone with his newest fixation that she can't help but sigh.

"Fear not dearest, could I ever truly leave you behind? Never. And do not fear. No living creatures shall be harmed in the divination of our meal, will they Krios?"

His head lifts at use of his true name. Almost immediately grimacing under her temerity, her fingers ruffling through his hair.

"More humor? Be forewarned culinary pastimes rank not among my favored hobbies."

Lahabrea holds up a hand. "Events continue failing to arise accordingly. I trust your transformation came unwillingly but would understand what you remember." 

He casts his gaze towards the rent up floor leading back towards the entrance. Peering around the corner, three students silently watching. Likely observed the entire affair. Behind his mask the speaker closes his eyes. What a showing.

Pashtarot hands the malboro in his lap off to Halmarut. Twists at the waist to detangle the other three in various stages of clinging to his person. One refuses to go without leaving behind toothy imprints. Screeching until he offers it created scrap of cloth and nudges it towards its fellows.

"They adore you, Krios," Halmarut says, patting the head of their nearest creation. "You simply must visit more frequently. Oh!"

Pashtarot pauses in wiping his hands off on already ruined robes. Halmarut claps, face lighting up delightedly.

"A field trip to the Planetarum! You would be such a dear and host us, yes yes?"

Host. Halmarut. And their. Malboros. Pashtarot glances over at the creatures in question once more, who seem to have created a ring around their fellow with gifted cloth. Circling the plant, tentacle arms waving in almost ritualistic pattern? Even their vocalizations take up an eerie, chantlike quality. As much as he can make out amongst the gurgles and screeches. 

Halmarut pays them no mind, attention raptly attuned to their colleague's response. Ah. It's not...he's not disinclined to company. Not at all. But their creations leave slippery, glistening trails of, of _something_ , everywhere. 

Delicate instrumentation, fine tuned gears and structures requiring daily cleaning for optimal functionality feature throughout the Planetarum. He definitely is not developing an eye twitch imagining it.

And yet. Halmarut's face, openly hopeful, tugs against better judgement. Soft heart indeed. Though Lahabrea doesn't need to hear it admitted he was, as always, correct in his dissemination of character. 

Halmarut erupts in best cheer. Probably would have hugged him had he not stood up and so they hug themself, tilting back and forth in place on the ground.

"Wonderful! Simply wonderful! We shall be on our best behavior, yes we shall!"

Their malboros continue to circle, making their weird noises. Concerning.

Lahabrea clears his throat, pointedly. Right. 

"I recall little to nothing past a certain time. May have, hmm. Fallen asleep in the throes of work."

Even though Lahabrea at least still has his mask, he lets the silence drag long enough Pashtarot knows his expression would be disapproving were it visible. 

Looks away, adding mildly petulant, "again, yes."

"Discouraging," Lahabrea says. Clasps his shoulder. "Pray see a more restful repose this evening, my friend. For my ease of mind."

Pashtarot barely has chance to nod before Loghrif grabs hold of his arm, half yanking him off his feet. Drags him in Mitron's direction, ignoring any and all muttered grumbling.

Lahabrea chuckles, turning his head down towards Halmarut. "Best not fight her. Resign yourself to company this night, Krios."

"A lesson in practical applications then," Loghrif says, allowing Pashtarot only right himself so she isn't dragging him backwards before grabbing his arm again. Does she think he'll make a run for it? "Do we not strive ever to improve our grasp on the fundamentals of our craft?"

Pashtarot huffs, but gives up trying to shrug off her hold. 

"Fair sure under marked better conditions than coercion, but clearly your judgment outpaces my own."

And Loghrif ruffles his hair again, this time more vigorously than before. Even as he jerks his head away from her searching fingers it's far, far too late. Sticking straight up. Poofy. Static charged, minor levin bolts fading between Loghrif's fingertips.

She used _current_. The utter nerve of that woman.

"And they say men don't learn."

"Underhanded, childish. Absolutely uncalled for manhandling -"

Loghrif pulls Pashtarot right on by Mitron, trading barbs out of Ichthyology and into the hallway beyond. Students whipping around the corner, scurrying away at their approach. Mitron, for his part, wrings his hands together, looking after his wife and coworker, then back towards Lahabrea and Halmarut.

Uncertain.

"I should stay and help -"

Lahabrea waves a lazy wrist at him, helping Halmarut to their feet.

"Go, Artemis. Time is precious, even amidst our immortality. Spend it with she who commands your heart. Nothing damaged here remains beyond our capacity to repair, given time. Notwithstanding," he adds, dryly, "I fear Loghrif may overwhelm Pashtarot without intervention."

Mitron frets a few moments more, uttering faintly, "Where comes such bewildering sense this shall be both the longest and most stimulating night I've seen ere several nights?"

Before he's off after them, disappearing down the hallway. Halmarut brushes dust off their robes, hands on their hips.

"Now, where have you skittered off? Here mask, here mask!"

Lahabrea tilts his head at their sing-songy tone, but obligingly assists in the search. Bright red color easily perceivable amongst the small scattered rubble littering the platform. Even if not, Halmarut's magic, energies warm and vivacious as their personality, would lead him kneeling to the same spot regardless. Reminds the speaker of Halmarut's earthy vegetable gardens, plumes of underlying flowery perfume pleasant yet not overwhelming. 

He lifts the mask and bends to rise, pausing on sense of another, foreign magical signature nearby. Lahabrea hands Halmarut their mask, examining this new magic and the area it yet clings. Faint, fading, drifting out of the room towards the Akadaemia exit.

Laughing, easy amusement, sight perceiving. Always watching. Holding many cards, yet rarely giving up their secrets.

Behind his mask, Lahabrea's eyes narrow. 

Of course.

He stands, frown twisting mouth and strides towards the exit out into the hallway beyond.

Halmarut calls after him, "Brea?"

"If you would simply see _reason_ Pash," Lahabrea hears Mitron's fading, agitated voice, "these experiments would take place in safety! In a protected environment we may investigate this line between animal instincts and our own."

"I quite nearly drowned!"

"Tch. Dramatics! You did no such thing. And what - do not look at me like that - what is a minor drowning for one such as us?"

Silence. Footsteps stop and then, incredulity.

"Do we speak the same tongue?"

Loghrif interrupts, steps resuming again.

"Your mask and hood, Pashtarot," laughter evident in her tone.

Lahabrea concentrates. Focuses mind's sight, training it to extend outward, push through walls and snake down corridors. Between Loghrif's time warping, brilliant smoky blaze and Mitron's opposing sea breeze, waves crashing cliffside. Where ebbing tides and hazed air meet hang the night's stars shining, effulgent glory caught and held surrounding Pashtarot.

And too, barest wisps, touches of mischief alien of the knight-star, weaving through his aether.

Halmarut calls again, and he turns his head, the sound of the alarum registering once more. Their malboro sap a clever, if somewhat disgusting, quick fix for the broken pipeline but not solution. And now it cracks, water beginning to leak through breaks forming in the darkened amber cocoon.

"Forgive me my distraction, Hal."

There appears a saboteur in their midst. A very familiar one indeed.

* * *

The following morning, Lahabrea pays a visit to the Architect's Bureau. 

Unannounced. 

He does not interrupt the usual flow of business on what is a typically animated day, taking a seat in line like everyone else.

And waits.

It does not take long for his presence to become noticed. His fellow Amaurotines modulate their voices out of respect for others in this space. Slowly but surely even these quiet voices uncertainly peeter out into murmurs. Then stop all together.

Lahabrea folds his hands in his lap. He moves with the line each time it rises, shortens. Sits down again.

Never says a word.

After a time, conversation begins again. Whatever calls the speaker to the bureau it seems falls on the chief's shoulders, and his alone. Which suits Lahabrea fine as it's Hythlodaeus he's here to see.

"Welcome to the Architect's Bureau," greets the front clerk, head bent to quill and paper. "How may I direct your query today?"

"Inform the chief Lahabrea requests an audience. At his earliest convenience."

Quill strokes still. The clerk looks up, mouth parting open but no sound immediately forthcoming. They clear their throat, setting aside their work and straightening in their seat.

"At once, speaker."

Lahabrea does not wait long. He's shown further into the bureau and escorted directly down several corridors to an unassuming office. Door propped open, almost expectantly.

Ah, so this is how he wishes to play this?

"Apologies for any interruptions," his escort says to the occupant inside, pausing just outside the doorway, "but the speaker is - "

Lahabrea doesn't wait for the escort to finish, striding forth into a small room tucked away in a corner of the bureau. 

Tidy, cozy for its brevity, in pale cream and floor laid over plush green rugs. Walls lined with bookshelves supporting innumerable tomes colorfully arranged likely not in any sensible order but according to whim. 

Shelving devoted to all manner of odds and ends - wood carvings, sculpture, small plants, assortment of shells and sea detritus. Children's toys. And oddly enough a created eggplant, not grown of the earth. Given position of prominence on a shelf all its own, decorated with cheeky red bow tied neatly around its tapering curve.

Azem's influence, no doubt, gifts from afar he brings home with windswept red hair, easy grin, and tales of distant lands.

Hythlodaeus awaits Lahabrea within. Settled behind his desk, elbows on its surface, fingers connected and cheek resting against the back of his hand. Golden gaze watches the doorway, watching Lahabrea enter. Even as Emet-Selch, seated nearby, gestures towards the white mask lying by the chief's sleeve. His venture goes ignored.

Emet-Selch sighs, snapping his fingers. The mask goes from desk to Hythlodaeus' face, shifting in place as if its owner had donned it himself. 

"One of these days," he promises, setting teacup aside and rising from his seat, "I shall not be here to rescue you, Hythlodaeus." 

A widening smile his friend's only response for a taunt even the speaker knows patently false. Lahabrea and Emet-Selch share a respectful nod, the latter closing the door behind his exit. Thoughtful.

Left alone thus, he cuts to the chase in short order.

"Shall we spare the pleasantries? I know you played a hand in the events at Andyer last eve. Why?"

Smile grows. Hythlodaeus doesn't try denying his claim, leaning off his desk and opening a drawer. Then another. He extracts several reams of parchment bound tightly in twine, beckoning Lahabrea closer.

One towering stack of parchment he recognizes immediately. Ifritia's elegant, fire-swept wingspan plotted out across the sheet under detailed, handwritten notes on flight patterns, aetheric balancing ratios. Multiple lines crossed out, reworked and rewritten. 

But one part of his phoenix's concept matrix, the others surely to follow underneath. Long transferred from parchment and quill to crystal and filed away in the Architect's Bureau archives for future copying and distributed use. Likely by the same chief who taps one long finger on the stack, moving to the next.

Two separate piles presented in Mitron's work here, shark teeth and fin curve with the chastiser's usual untidy scrawl littering the page on the top of one. The second? A marked mess of stamped red rejected. So thick Lahabrea can't even make out the parchment's original design. Only that its vague shape is rather large, bulbous, with an alarming array of multiple tentacle-like limbs boasting suction cups lined with _teeth_. Someone has written, in large print, 'NO' on the parchment. Underlined darkly.

Hythlodaeus moves on to a third pile, smaller than the rest but no less illegible than Mitron's rejected collection. Lahabrea cannot be sure, of course, but recent encounters with Halmarut's malboros leads him to suspect the stains besmirching the parchment belong to their sap. And by the look of the haphazard stack, sticks all the way through.

Paperwork thus arrayed before the speaker's gaze, Hythlodaeus leans back in his chair.

"With heaviest heart," expression and tone belying his words from the start, "I must admit a certain, ah, overworked state the bureau strains under, honored speaker."

Oh? This should be quite the performance indeed. Lahabrea inclines his head.

And Hythlodaeus presses on.

"You would agree, would you not, it lies in Amaurot's best interests one of its premiere institutions remains well run? Stable? Functional? In sufficient spirits?"

Behind his mask Lahabrea raises an eyebrow the amount of emphasis Hythlodaeus places on his last point. Pleasant smile does not shift an ilm, however.

"Naturally."

"Appreciated. And yet. Hmm. I cannot help but remark how truly fascinating I find it thusly how the smallest. The most seemingly harmless of things," and here Hythlodaeus pauses at soft snort, grin ratcheting up, "simply manages to induce such unruly chaos?"

Chaos.

Lahabrea looks again at the stacks of parchment - his multitude of concepts, Mitron's numerous amount of rejections. And what is there to be said about Halmarut's utter disregard for proper filing protocol?

Thinks back on Pashtarot as a small hermit crab, terribly efficient at utterly rendering his coworkers inept in his containment. 

Ah. A picture does form. Were Hythlodaeus any other Amaurotine, he might have simply written or requested audience with one of the convocation members who so dearly offended him.

But alas, he is Hythlodaeus. And therefore it made more sense to shape shift poor Pashtarot and release him to Mitron's tender mercies.

Lahabrea crosses his arms across his chest. "What, pray tell, was Pashtarot's crime? How did he manage your ire?"

Here Hythlodaeus brings cupped hand to his mouth, muffling cough what sounds suspiciously like aborted chuckle.

"Ah. The innocent party. Towards our knight-star I must admit a measure of remorse. He did seem struggling under some fatigue. But the pull of irony, you see."

Of all the -

"You are replaceable," Lahabrea says flatly.

Hythlodaeus nods. Cheerful.

"By all means I await the day of my joyous reprieve! I wish you the best of luck in such endeavor." He tilts his head, smile taking on a knowing slant. "From the last five inferences you, personally, have made in this direction I trust you proceed apace? When may I expect release?"

Lahabrea remains silent. Damn his insight. In truth, anyone _could_ fill the office of chief of the Architect's Bureau. The proper training, desire to see Amaurot continue to reach new heights of growth and discovery - these are not talents limited to Hythlodaeus alone.

But it's his strength in gift of aetheric sight that makes him suited above and beyond all others for his post. And if Lahabrea cannot keep his mischief, his unrivaled potential for chaos under thumb in the convocation, he would keep Hythlodaeus here. Where he may be of use to the city. And mostly kept under control.

Mostly.

Hythlodaeus taps a finger against his chin thoughtfully.

"Hmm. I must needs make amends with Pashtarot, I feel."

The very thought stands the hairs at the nape of Lahabrea's neck, prickling uncomfortably. 

Amends could mean. Anything.

Possibly? Simply speaking with him. An apology. Imagine! 

But far more likely, Lahabrea suspects, Pashtarot would arrive to work one day and find the Planetarum's floor a moving swarm of crabs. Perhaps not even recognizable crustaceans but beings aglow, made out of starlight. The irony factor, again.

"Please," Lahabrea says, resisting the urge to rub at his temple through his mask, "please refrain. Do you mean to stifle creation?"

"Hardly. Simply understand excessive filings may proceed far smoother under, shall we say, detailed preparatory notations from yours truly? Teach Mitron to write with a quill, not the edge of a fin. And Halmarut, well, legibility would be a beginning."

No matter how he looks at them, the demands remain not unreasonable. 

"Utterly charming."

Hythlodaeus hums. "Do you think so?"

His office door opens and closes on chime like laughter, both the chief and the speaker knowing Hythlodaeus has well won that round yet again.


End file.
